This is a Story About Love
by JessKnowsBest
Summary: In the aftermath of Satine's untimely death, Christian fell apart. But now a new girl has been added to the Moulin Rouge's show - a girl who looks exactly the same as Satine.
1. Chapter 1

**Never written a Moulin Rouge fic before.. Go easy on me, loves.**

* * *

Chapter 1

It was the stares that bothered her the most. The haunted whispers behind her back and claimed cases of mistaken identity she could handle. But it was the stares that drove her mad.

She arched her back in the slightest, easily keeping her balance on the swing above the captivated crowds. Having done this her whole life (under different circumstances, of course), the only change was how invested her audiences became. The corner of her mouth twinged upward, the piano crescendo'd, and the spotlight vanished from her, temporarily leaving the auditorium veiled in darkness. When the lights returned, the mysterious girl had vanished. Delighted, the men and women on the floor applauded, shouting for encore. Instead, they were rewarded with a high-kicking chorus line.

Breathless, flushed, and grinning like a madman, the starlet dashed backstage. "Do you hear them, Tony? They love me!" For a moment, the vivid images of the stares had vanished in her mind. Pride surfaced and drowned out all else.

Antonio smiled, wrapping his muscular arms around her lithe frame. "I hear them, Cess. Zidler ought to give you a raise," he added, raising his eyebrows and kissing her glistening forehead.

She wrinkled her nose, temporarily pulled back by gravity. "I'm afraid to ask. People might think it's because I look like _her._"

"No. No, no, no amor. They all saw you out there tonight! No one would think he was paying you off for some other chica. You were beautiful." The urgency left his tone immediately, and his determined expression softened. "I think you were perfect."

Cecily's cheeks darkened to a dull pink tone, and she chewed on her bottom lip. "I love you so much right now," she declared, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him. Taller than she, Tony effortlessly lifted her up and she molded to him.

"I.. do hope that I'm not interrupting?" The chipper voice of Harold Zidler interrupted them, and Tony quickly set Cecily down. She couldn't make eye contact with her boss, but seemed to have trouble holding back a rather serious case of the giggles. "Miss Simon, Senor Morales, must I remind you yet again about the Moulin Rouge's policy regarding fraternization?" He tsked in a fatherly way, approaching the pair.

The red-headed gentlemen paused in front of the girl, and, as always, his heart skipped a beat. Cecily Simon. God, how much she resembled.. But no. He mustn't dwell on that now. He turned his gaze to the Spaniard at her side. What she saw in the brute he'd never know. Zidler cleared his throat. "Miss Simon, I commend you on your superb performance. Angela will alert you should be needed again." He nodded at the both of them, not even bothering for the usually-mandatory slap on the wrist. "Good evening." Boots clicking ever so softly on the dusty wooden floors, he left, returning to his stage to introduce the next act.

Tony gently elbowed Cecily in the ribs, and she burst into peals of laughter. She wasn't even sure what she was laughing at. The laughing fit passed, and she leaned into his arms, resting her head in the nook of his neck. Cess bit her lip again, a nervous habit of hers. "Want to go celebrate?" She teased.

Her fiancé didn't need to be asked twice. She was so light, he was so burly, he lifted her and carried her to her dressing room. Cecily forgot about the stares.

* * *

Later that evening, the manager and owner of the red windmill found himself reclining at his desk in the basement of the building. His legs were crossed over his desk, and he was smoking a cigar to celebrate the night's profits. That Cecily was one hell of a money maker.

Zidler frowned, removing the cigar from his puckered lips and blowing a few unimpressive smoke rings. It was uncanny, really, how much she resembled Satine. The two could have been sisters, maybe even twins. His other employees noticed, and avoided the poor girl. At this point, even the patrons were beginning to see the resemblance. The man sighed, taking another puff on his pungent cigar. Unknowingly, she was carving an isolated niche for herself. Good thing she had that Spanish boy to keep her company, even if he was an idiot and a thug.

Satine's death had been almost three years ago. Zidler had heard very little of that playwright/poet since then, but Toulouse was doing a rather good job of reporting items of importance. Like the fact that Christian had almost drunk himself to death twice now, both times rescued by the dwarf. For the first year after her passing, he had refused to leave his apartment, writing some kind of eulogy, or a biography. Harold did not care enough to find out. After that, the poor boy lived in and out of brothels and ale houses, doing his best to forget. Zidler hadn't heard anything of him since then. But since it looked like Cecily was going to be taken on as a permanent member of the company, maybe now would be the opportune time to send a letter to his old friend.

Overjoyed in his own wicked wittiness, Zidler reached for some stationary.


	2. Chapter 2

It was early. But when one had fallen out of the conventional traveling pattern, one did things such as arrive to strip clubs shortly after dawn.

Christian raised one hand to knock on the side door entrance, and hesitated. Why had he returned to the Moulin Rouge? There had been that letter from Harold Zidler, claiming that it was of the utmost importance that he return. But Christian had not been given a reason for him to come back. And yet, like a lost little puppy, he had come when called. The hollow man sighed. Did it really matter why he was here? It was not like he had anywhere better to be.

He let his hand fall. Instead of knocking, however, he pushed open the door, stepping into the dim backstage area of the giant windmill. Light filtered in through unpatched cracks in the walls and roof, illuminating the dust swirling in the unmoving air. Christian brushed it aside, as though would help.

Footsteps echoing in the vast silence, Christian made his way from the back of the building to the front. Images attacked him – there were the stairs leading to her bedroom, that was where he had spent the night worried she had been with the Duke, that was where they spent endless hours pretending to create a persona for the beautiful courtesan. That was where she died. _They should have been heroes._ Instead, they were a broken fairy tale.

He had made it to the stage. Plagued by grief and memories he had long forgotten, he didn't even notice that he wasn't alone in the room. It took seconds for his eyes to fill with tears. A muted sob shook his body. And a creak from the ceiling caused him to glance upward; sure his trespassing had been caught.

The swing where Christian had first laid eyes on the lovely Satine had been lowered, and was now halfway between floor and ceiling. A pale girl with crimson locks was balancing steadily, humming to herself, as she practiced a series of simple tricks in midair. She did not seem to notice Christian.

For a split second, time stood still. The oh-so-familiar and yet unrecognizable girl was frozen in her pose, and Christian could not move. All of the breath had left his body, and he thought he was drowning. No. This was all a dream, of some sort. A nightmare. He had received no message from Zidler. He had simply overeaten at his last meal and his mind was punishing him with his past. Eyes wide, he stepped back, almost tripping on the curtain. Seconds later, the stranger was out of sight.

It had to be a trick of the light. Or simply his brain superimposing an image of Satine onto some poor chorus girl. At any rate, his breath had returned him, though his breathing was labored and his heart was pounding.

He felt like he remained there, motionless, for hours. In all reality, likely only a few minutes had passed. After Christian had collected himself from the shock, convincing himself that what he had seen was an impossibility and therefore did not exist, he descended the staircase to Harold Zidler's office.

The portly man was waiting, a semi-sadistic grin on his features. Visible behind his top hat (it was sitting on his desk), Zidler leaned forward, his chin resting on his hands. "So.. you've seen her?"

Christian blinked, then slumped to his knees in front of the desk.

Zidler grinned, leaning forward even more in his plush velvet chair. "Welcome back, Christian. It's been so long. How ever have the years treated you?"

"How.." Christian was not equipped to respond to such an emotional barrage. He was searching for something, anything, to say; his eyes scanning the air in front of him like he could find an answer. Finally, they made contact with Zidler's, and narrowed. "You.. why?"

The perfectly horrible combination of impish and angelic; that was Harold Zidler. "Why what, mon petit ami?" he continued in a diabolically sugary and smug voice.

Christian straightened, then after but a moment's hesitation, stood. He walked forward, leaning heavily on Harold's desk with his hands. His gaze was to the wood beneath his knuckles, but his accusations were to the man seated in front of him. "Are you really as soulless as that? You gain sick amusement from watching a wretched poet linger over the death of his one true love? You purposefully rip his beating heart out of his chest cavity?"

Harold Zidler, if possible, looked even more sinister. Then he laughed, jovial, and the mood in the room lost most of the tension. "No, of course not, Christian, my dear boy."

_Liar_.

"No, no no no no. I called you here because the Moulin Rouge is going to recreate that splendid play performed here a few years back. I need the author's permission, however."

Straightening, Christian now looked into the watery eyes of the owner of the Moulin Rouge. "You won't be able to put it on without me," he said, the emotion invisible in his voice.

Zidler stood, dropping his hands on both of Christian's shoulders and laughing heartily. "I wouldn't have it any other way!"

* * *

_The Moulin Rouge proudly presents:_

_SPECTACULAR SPECTACULAR_

* * *

(( Bleh… I apologize if everyone sounds out of character. x.x I've never been very good with things like that.. ))


	3. Chapter 3

There was a theatre. Filled to the brim with the clientele that often frequented the Red Windmill. Harold Zidler was dressed outrageously, in a red jacket and top hat. His beard was curly, and he was singing.

Singing? Harold never participated in the acts.

There was a weasely looking man in the front row. She recognized him, if only from pictures. The Count? The Duke? Some upper class title or other. She had read about him in the tabloids, but he hadn't been seen around here in, what, three years?

There was a man. Handsome. Not in an overbearing way, either. He didn't seem cocky or arrogant or in control, not like Tony did. Instead he seemed shy and quiet, as though he wouldn't believe you if you told him how charming he appeared. It was obvious he was in love. He couldn't take his eyes off of…

Her.

Cecily's eyes flew open. Why was she dreaming about Satine?

* * *

"Christian? Christian!"

The writer sleepily blinked open his eyes. It took him a matter of moments to sit up, and a few minutes after that to figure out where he was. Definitely _not_ his flat in London. This was… the apartment in France. Three years ago he had gotten drunk with Toulouse, writing a wonderful and tragic story… His voice echoed in his head. _"The hills are alive with the sound of music."_

Three years ago he had spent countless hours with the love of his life here. And she was gone.

"Christian!"

The persistent pounding on his door pulled him from his rather depressing memories. He stumbled out of bed, not even aware that he was clad only in the blanket, pulled from his dingy bed.

"'ello?" He murmured, opening his door. He was still too bleary to make much of anything he saw, and so he frowned at the short, enigmatic man bouncing around just outside his room.

"Christian!" The short, enigmatic man launched himself at the writer, wrapping his small arms around Christian's chest. "You're back!"

That… voice. "Toulouse?"

"Of course! Who else would it be?" He pulled back, grinning up at Christian, who, despite his exhaustion, managed to smile back.

Half an hour later Christian had showered and was more awake and more aware. He sat on the opposite end of the couch, facing the small Frenchman who had come to pay him a visit. Both of them were warily drinking brown water, for lack of anything else to ingest. Toulouse had since gotten over his contagious excitement, and was more curious as to the return of his friend than anything else.

"Zidler wrote me," the young man explained. "He wants to do another production of Spectacular. He needs me to rewrite the script and then direct."

Toulouse frowned. What was Christian thinking? The first – and last – time that the show had played at the Moulin, it had ended in death, ultimately closing down the Moulin. For a whole year the lights that had brightened the wondrous windmill had been dull, unused. When Zidler decided enough time had passed – and had amassed enough money to reopen it – the Moulin Rouge had been back in business. Many of the patrons had missed it, and so returned in droves, again making the ginger Ring Master a wealthy man. Toulouse knew that Zidler was rolling in dough, so what had prompted his desire to recreate Spectacular Spectacular? Money was certainly not prompting this.

Christian suddenly leaned forward, head in his hands. His eyes were stinging, but they were dry. He had long since used up all of his tears for Satine.

Toulouse was aware, concerned, at once and stood up slid over to Christian's side of the couch. He tentatively patted the Englishman's back, unsure of how to heal this kind of grief.

"He's already picked a courtesan," Christian said slowly.

For a moment, Toulouse was confused. Then it dawned on him – from the play, of course. The courtesan in Spectacular had been… Satine. He frowned, and removed his hand from Christian's back. How was this possible? It hadn't even been widely publicized that Spectacular was being performed again. The first he had heard of it was right now, from Christian. He could name a dozen whores who would kill for a role like that, but none had been given the time to con Zidler into hiring them. How had he found the right girl?

"He's got… this girl…" _Satine._

Toulouse was only more confused. "He's already got the girl?" He asked, trying to clarify.

Christian looked up at the Frenchman, his eyes red although he obviously hadn't been crying. "I don't know… how, or why… but she looks exactly like S-satine." He tripped over the name of his lover, having not uttered it aloud in months. He had tried to preserve her to memory, and every time she came up in conversation he felt like he was losing memories of their short time together.

Ah, that made sense. Zidler wasn't doing this because he needed money. It was a combo deal. A, he got to mess with Christian, who he still blamed for losing the Duke's trust (although, unbeknownst to anyone else, Zidler had been rooting for Christian and Satine the whole time). And B, he already had the perfect girl for the job.

Toulouse wanted to ask more questions: What was the name of the girl? Was she related to Satine? Would he, Toulouse, be the sitar-who-could-speak-naught-but-the-truth? Would Christian be cast in this performance? How did this girl come the Moulin? How come he had never heard of this? Did this girl know of her resemblance to Satine? These and more questions – none of which really made any sense – cluttered his mind, and for a second, he was speechless.

Christian just looked on, as though he expected Toulouse to say something.

Finally, the dark-haired man coughed. "I don't know what to tell you, Christian," he apologized honestly. "But it's been three years. You should-" He cut himself off. He was about to tell Christian that he should have been long over Satine. But the poet/author had always been the sensitive type, and Toulouse imagined that he had spent the last three years either isolated in an apartment writing love letters to the dead girl or drunk and in an alley. He sighed.

Finally, he stood. There wasn't really any more he could say, not when Christian was this desolate. Conversation could come later, when the boy was at least pretending to be over his grief. "I'll see you around, then?" He asked, rubbing the back of his head.

Christian nodded. "Rehearsal starts on Saturday."

* * *

"'ow could you do this wifout even consultin' me? I've been 'ere fer _years!_ An' this little strumpet waltzes right in and takes me job? Zidler, I knew you was low, but this…" She wagged her finger threateningly in Zidler's direction. "This is unforgivable."

The man looked unfazed by her outburst, and simply sat back in his plush chair. "I'm sorry, Nini. Cecily's not only younger and in possession of a clearer voice, but she looks identical to her predecessor." None of his words were uttered maliciously. He spoke as though they were facts.

But Nini-Legs-in-the-Air was having none of it. As far as she was concerned, her boss had just called her _old_ as well as accused of her not being capable of singing. She balled her hands into fists but left them at her sides. She was positively seething, but there was little she could do except hunt down the Narcoleptic Argentinean and have some angry sex. Giving Zidler one last death glare (if only looks could kill) she spun around and relatively fled his office. Thank god she didn't see Cecily as she headed for her own dressing room or Nini might have killed the poor girl.

Zidler sighed. On the one hand, this entire production was going to be a huge hassle, what with dealing with Nini and some of the other Dance Line. But he was getting bored in the monotony of wealth and watching the love triangle that was _sure_ to ensue betwixt Christian, Cecily, and Antonio was going to be well worth it.

He stroked the small thin beard that he allowed to grow on his fat chin and pondered. There was no way this could backfire on him, right? The last thing the Moulin Rouge needed now was a scandal. Right now there was enough of that at the Opéra Garnier, and though they were celebrating, the Moulin wouldn't survive another tragedy like Satine's.

He sat forward in his chair, skimming the second first draft of Spectacular Spectacular. He had given pretty much all control to Christian, but kept veto power. The first page listed the name of the play as well as the cast list.

The Courtesan – Cecily Simon

The Penniless Sitar Player – Christian

The Maharajah – Antonio Morales

The Sitar – Toulouse-Lautrec

Harold grinned. He had never really expected Christian to go along with this, though that had been a pleasant surprise. After all, who would have guessed the success of a pretend play? Spectacular Spectacular had only been created so the Duke wouldn't realize that he had caught Satine and Christian in such a compromising situation. Harold laughed to himself. What a silly beginning to such an enigmatic story.

Sure that Nini was off somewhere drowning herself in her troubles and therefore less likely to tear down the list, Harold ripped it from the rest of the sheath of papers and tacked to his door. Most of the cast from the show would be passing by this hallway at least once in the next hour, and he figured they'd like to know their roles. Especially Cecily.

Said woman happened to be the next person to pass his door, accompanied by her Spanish fiancé. The bold red words reading the name of the musical caught Tony's attention, and he pulled at Cess' hand, preventing her from walking further down the hallway.

She frowned. "What?" She followed his furrowed gaze to the cast list. Was that… her name?

Her name was the first one on the list.

Her name had never been first on any list.

She was going to star in Spectacular Spectacular.

A wave of nausea, of dread, filled her throat, and for a moment she couldn't breathe. The Moulin Rouge was reproducing Spectacular and she was cast as the Courtesan. Satine's role. Fuck. She was going to die.

Her world spun, but not because she was about to faint. Antonio had lifted her up and circled her, laughing proudly. "We are starring, baby!" he exclaimed, not understanding that her fate had just been sealed. "You are starring in Spectacular Spectacular!" He set her down and turned back to the list. "I do not know this Christian, but surely he must be talented or Zidler would not hire him." This last part was more an aside to himself than anything. He narrowed his thick black eyebrows. This Christian person… He would have to do some research, especially since this Christian person would be playing the real love interest of Tony's love interest.

He looked down at the redhead. "Why are you not smiling?"

"Huh?" Cecily looked up to see Tony staring at her, an eyebrow cocked accusingly. She quickly smiled, and his face relaxed. Of course, her insides were still tying themselves up in knots but she _was_ an actress and so her smile looked genuine enough. "We're starring," she repeated. _I'm_ starring. And then I'm dead.


End file.
